


Acts of Worship

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Kissing, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty and Moran experiment with a sexual act that Moriarty has never tried before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acts of Worship

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: please can you write some moriarty/moran with rimming

   “You have done such a thing before?” he asks, but he knows the answer already.

    “Yes,” Moran replies, smiling lazily up at him. “Of course I have.”

    Of course. Of course there is very little under the sun that Sebastian Moran has not tried with one partner or another in his very active sexual life before Moriarty. The professor wonders why this makes his heart seem to constrict painfully for a moment. Moran, despite the occasional longing looks directed elsewhere, has been scrupulously loyal to him since they have been together and it is completely illogical to be jealous of partners who flitted in and out of the colonel’s life before Moran even knew of the professor’s existence. Besides, there _are_ benefits to his seemingly boundless experience – it significantly reduces any awkwardness and off-putting hesitant fumbling when one’s partner knows exactly what they are doing. The professor decides to focus on this thought and upon the fact that Moran has never before performed this act with _him_ which therefore does, in a way, make it something novel, so he may as well go along with it and see how he feels about it. Before that however there is one pressing question he feels he must ask.

    “Why?”

    Moran looks up at him questioningly. “Why what?”

    “Why do you want to do this? I understand that there are nerve endings and such that may make this intensely pleasurable for the receiver but I cannot comprehend what pleasure _you_ will get from it?”

    Moran smiles, that relaxed, carefree smile of one who feels so very safe and secure with his partner, able to give full (well, almost) expression to his most intimate and secret desires. In their private time alone like this he washes the oil from his hair and thus it is no longer severely slicked back but falls loosely over his face, softening his angular features somewhat. “I enjoy giving you pleasure, Professor.”

    Which has long been apparent to Moriarty, who has noted Moran’s intense arousal when he has taken the professor’s length in his mouth and sucked him deeply, an act which Moriarty has come to love being on the receiving end of but does not much enjoy reciprocating (although mercifully the colonel has never demanded or even seemed to expect reciprocation). Even the genuine pleasure he might experience at reducing Moran to complete helplessness between the combined actions of his mouth and hands is largely curtailed by the unpleasant taste and simply the messiness of the act. The idea therefore of putting his mouth and tongue in an even more taboo vicinity of the body… it does not disgust him per se but he cannot conceive of obtaining enjoyment from performing the act upon another person.

    Moran slides over on top of him, naked skin slipping over naked skin (unusual in itself, for Moriarty to be naked, or naked this early in the proceedings, but there really seemed no point in redressing after his bath), and just kisses him for a while, on the mouth, along the edge of his jaw, down his neck, before slowly moving down his chest.

    Moriarty’s breath hitches as Moran trails his tongue across a nipple. “Moran.” He swallows thickly as the colonel, grinning up at him, continues leisurely working his way down the professor’s body. “Sebastian.” He is not quite certain any more why he agreed to this. Not that there isn’t something delicious about seeing Moran in such a subservient position, focused entirely on pleasuring the professor, but it also simultaneously makes Moriarty feel so very vulnerable, so much at the mercy of another, and that unnerves him. He recalls feeling much the same the first few times Moran took him in his mouth.

    “It’s all right.” Moran pauses in his descent and reaches to thread his fingers through Moriarty’s, squeezing his hand briefly. “You’re in control here, sir. You don’t want this or you don’t like it, you tell me and I’ll stop.” He is crouched over Moriarty now, seemingly predatory, but his gaze is fixed on the professor’s as he looks for an indication as to whether he should resume or stop.

    Moriarty nods slightly and Moran continues, pressing a light trail of kisses down over Moriarty’s stomach, down, still downwards, arching over, his head bowed now as he presses his face into the crease between Moriarty’s inner thigh and his testicles.

    Both men value personal cleanliness and hygiene – that is perhaps part of the reason they initially found each other to be agreeable enough companions. Moriarty in particular enjoys taking long, soothing baths but he has spent extra time tonight on washing himself even more thoroughly than usual, not wishing to do something that might inadvertently offend Moran. He could not quite help thinking though as he did so that he was preparing himself as if for some ritual sacrifice.

    So now when Moran breathes in the professor’s scent there is nothing but the warm smell of clean skin and the hint of his soap, pleasing aromas to Moran who inhales them as he nuzzles gently along Moriarty’s inner thighs, gently teasing him with touches of his tongue, before directing his attention towards Moriarty’s prick. Moriarty is not yet hard so Moran seems to decide that he should rectify this before moving to the main event.

    “Moran,” the professor murmurs, breath catching again as he finds the head of his length being taken in a warm, wet, eager mouth. He arches a little off the bed as Moran takes more of his now growing arousal into his mouth, slowly working its tip towards the back of his throat with confident ease. Meanwhile Moran’s hands caress and stroke, over Moriarty’s hips; his thighs; over his balls, gently lifting and fondling them.

    Moriarty closes his eyes, perhaps not entirely of his own will.

    “Sebastian,” he says. “God, Sebastian.” Twisting his face sideways into the pillow, his hands clenching unwittingly into the sheets. “Please…”

    And Moran understands this plea, though no more is said. Please no more of _this_ ; please move on. It is almost too much for the professor, Moran pushing him ever closer to the brink with the skill of his mouth and hands, but he knows when to withdraw. With a smile he draws himself back off Moriarty’s now fully hard length, leaving it flushed and slick with saliva.

    “Professor?” he says, and his voice sounds a bit hoarse and when Moriarty opens his eyes again and looks at him he sees that Moran’s eyes are dark with desire. “You’re sure you want this?”

    Moriarty does not trust himself to speak still, only nods again, and so Moran puts his warm, strong hand on the professor’s hip and gently tugs, encouraging Moriarty to roll over onto his front. He should be more comfortable that way, propped up with a couple of spare pillows beneath his hips, Moran reasons, and perhaps he will feel less exposed; less vulnerable. He straddles Moriarty’s thighs, his own cock standing up thick and hard between his legs, and Moriarty tenses briefly as Moran puts his hand on his back.

    “It’s all right, sir.” Moran rubs slow, soothing circles against the professor’s lower back with his knuckles, and then he’s kissing again, trailing those kisses down the professor’s spine.

    Moriarty’s eyes are closed again, perhaps all the better to consider the sensations, Moran’s lips moving over his skin and then…

  _Then…_

   Warm breath, and wetness, alternating with the soft brush of Moran’s lips as he moves between licking and kissing and even occasionally sucking. He seems never to be still, moving constantly and varying his actions, varying then the sensations produced within Moriarty, shifting between the base of the professor’s spine, around his entrance and down, over the back of his sac, to his inner thighs, and then tracing back up with his tongue until… until…

    Moriarty groans thickly, relaxing now, and losing much of his remaining composure with it. This is perhaps not so radically different to other things they have done before yet it is still new, so strange, so alien even, to be opened up this way, with Moran’s clever tongue, and yet it is so utterly exquisite, the colonel stimulating him in ways he could never have imagined. His hands fist into the sheets and he finds himself bucking his hips, thrusting against the pillow, seeking a little friction against his arousal, a desire that Moran meets too, sliding a hand between the professor’s spread legs to stroke his prick; to gently fondle his testicles again whilst still he continues the work with his lips and tongue.

    Not a sacrifice, this, Moriarty realises: it is _worship_. He opens his eyes again and looks back, seeing his companion, his lover, engrossed in pleasuring him, obviously deeply aroused himself but focused above all else on satisfying the professor. It is an intoxicating sight and only makes Moriarty’s prick twitch with greater need. He cannot last much longer, he is sure, and indeed he does not last more than seconds after this.

    When Moran simultaneously tongues him and caresses his cock again Moriarty comes, spilling into that strong hand, hearing himself crying out as if through water, as if from a long way away, or perhaps… perhaps that is not _only_ him crying out.

    Long moments seem to pass before he comes back to himself, curled on his side nearly foetal-like, feeling shaky but sated.

    “Professor.” Moran, seated on the bed beside him, his lean legs draped over the side, brushes his fingers through Moriarty’s tousled hair, and he sounds a bit drained himself. “You’re all right?”

    “Perfectly all right.” Although Moriarty’s voice sounds husky still and he does not trust himself to attempt moving too far yet. He gets as far as sitting up beside Moran, and now he looks across, down at his companion, noticing the glistening streaks across Moran’s bare stomach. “Sebastian?” he says. “You finished yourself off?”

    Moran looks away – it’s a thing he’s been chastised for in some of their past games, after all, bringing himself to climax before the professor has given him permission. “Not exactly, sir.”

    “Then… what?”

    Moran swallows before meeting the professor’s genuinely questioning gaze. “Sometimes it just happens, sir.”

    “You mean… pleasuring me in that manner was sufficient to make you…?”

    “Yes sir.”

     Puzzling, yet also fascinating, Moriarty thinks. He covers Moran’s hand with his own, an attempt to reassure him that this is not something he would condemn Moran for. “You had best go and get cleaned up then.”

    “Of course, Professor.” Although Moran remains seated for a moment, eyes meeting Moriarty’s, a crooked little smile on his face, until Moriarty finally removes his hand. He strips the now somewhat soiled spare pillows that had been under Moriarty’s hips from the bed and takes these with him as he leaves the room.

    Moriarty settles himself back on the bed, resting against the usual pillows, to wait for his companion’s return, thinking of nothing very much, just dimly aware of the sounds of water splashing and then Moran padding back, barefoot, into the room. The colonel has cleaned himself up now and brings with him a bowl of water and a clean cloth. This he uses to wipe away any remaining physical traces of their activities from Moriarty’s body, noting how the professor closes his eyes, appearing totally relaxed now, as he does so.

    Moriarty’s eyes are still closed when Moran goes to dispose of the water and when he returns from that last task he briefly wonders if the professor is already asleep. In silence he turns out the lamp and slips into bed beside him, pulling the sheets up over them both. However Moriarty now shifts and turns half onto his side as Moran snuggles closer, and finally opens his eyes again.

    “Sebastian.”

    “James.” In the dark it’s easier to use his first name. “Did you like it?”

    “It was a most intriguing and indeed very pleasant experience.” Moriarty cannot give him an answer any more specific than this – he cannot possibly tell him of some of the thoughts that occurred to him; that yes, he felt vulnerable, but also how Moran’s reverence towards him during the act transmuted that sense of vulnerability into something else, into a great feeling of power.

    “So you’d want to do it again, maybe?”

    “Perhaps,” Moriarty answers, and though in the gloom he cannot fully make out Moran’s expression by sight, he puts his hand to Moran’s cheek and _feels_ him smile at this answer. Moran evidently knows that despite the non-committal response, Moriarty has every intention of repeating this experience.

    Moriarty leans forward, still cupping his hand around Moran’s cheekbone, and kisses his lover on the mouth, softly at first, then a bit more deeply. He half expects it to be slightly unpleasant but Moran’s lips and tongue taste of nothing worse than the cheap whisky he’s used to rinse his mouth.

    “Your regard for me never ceases to astonish me, my dove,” he tells him after the kiss, when Moran, curling around him, has his face pressed to Moriarty’s shoulder. Another thing that seems easier to say in the dark, maybe, and when he is not looking Moran in the eye. He strokes Moran’s back lightly with his fingertips and he feels how he tenses at these words; how the colonel draws in a sharp breath and does not let it out for some seconds.

    “I just… I want to make you happy,” he says at last, his voice slightly muffled against Moriarty’s neck. Which is the most he can say, at least in words – he cannot say _I love you_ any more than Moriarty could say that to him (or even simply _I want to make you happy also_ ), but he need not, and Moriarty need not. For every word spoken there are at least a dozen more communicated through subtler (yet perhaps far more powerful) means and Moran’s _worshipping_ him and Moriarty accepting, no, _embracing_ this tells of a bond between them more potent and more durable than exists between many men and their wives. Once that notion would have been enough to make both of them run a mile, but things change.

   “You do, pet,” Moriarty says, before yawning. “You always do.”

    Sleepy now, Moran hums contentedly in response but says nothing.

    There is nothing more that needs to be said.


End file.
